


Warnings

by Feynite



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Dorian Does Not Approve, Friendship, Gen, Post Trespasser, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4911640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian knows the minds of mages who want to be gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warnings

 

 

Dorian knows the minds of mages who want to be gods.

It is, after all, the role he was groomed for. Not  _explicitly_  of course. No one’s supposed to be aiming for the blasphemy of genuine godhood. Praise be the Maker and all of that. But it’s the unspoken end goal of the quest to breed the perfect mage, when it all boils down to it. A mage powerful enough to outdo all others. A mage capable of bringing back the lost glory of a shattered empire. A mage who can reshape reality however it suits them. 

The maniac cultists and most graspingly ambitious magisters need to get their inspiration from  _somewhere_ _,_  after all. 

It’s not always callousness, either. There are magisters who treat their slaves quite humanely, who would never dream of using them for blood sacrifice (unless it was  _absolutely_  necessary for the greater good, you must understand), who want to restore Tevinter’s glory because they love it just as much as he does.  They only need the power to help others, because no one else can be trusted to get the job done, you see. No one else can be trusted to have the competence for it, or the good intentions. No one else can figure out the big picture.

A sense of responsibility can be just as damning, in its own way, as a sense of privilege. Whether the conceit is 'I am the only one worthy of this greatness' or 'I am the only one who can fix this mess', the end result is rarely much different. The drive for power and the belief in one's own personal authority over all others can blur the lines of good and bad until they don't matter much any more.

Dorian knows the minds of mages who want to be gods.

He runs the clues over in his thoughts from time to time, wondering why he never saw it before.  _He_  was in the best position to do so, after all. To recognize what Solas was. Just another would-be mage-god, prowling around a floor beneath him.

Prowling around Dorian’s best and truest living friend.

The bitterness that burns coldly in his throat is a surprise. 

He takes it personally. They all do to some extent, he knows, but none of them were really in quite the same position to see what was going on as he was. To look past the humble clothing and quiet demeanour and realize that no self-taught hedge wizard should know  _that_  much. To pick up on the undercurrents of all those conversations about people and freedom and elves, and recognize the wolf in their midst. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t see it, and now he gets to watch as a mage who acts like a god threatens his world and, on a more personal level, destroys his friend one slow piece at a time. His friend who still wants to  _save_  this man.

He understands that. He really does.

But when it comes right down to it, mages who act like gods always seem to reach the same bad end.

He has no intention of letting this one drag someone he cares about down with him.

He turns, slowly, and regards the spy who’d been discovered in his own household. This agent of Fen’Harel, who is tall, with old eyes and a grim expression. Who stands, bound, bracing himself for the axe to fall.

“I suppose you’re expecting torture or execution or something similarly gruesome,” he muses.

The elf says nothing.

“Fortunately for you, that’s all very messy. And I loathe mess. So we’re going to forgo the usual stages where I stick you with hot pokers and you nobly refrain from giving me any details on your master’s whereabouts or plans. Frankly, I don’t particularly care  _where_  he is at the moment. Everyone knows that with those handy little mirrors of yours, that can change in an instant anyway. And as to his plan, I doubt he’s told you anything more than what we already know.”

He pours himself a drink. An Antivan red. Very ominous. For effect, he lifts the glass, and swirls it a little.

There’s a pause.

“So you’re just going to kill me?” the elf finally asks.

“Kill you? Gracious, no!” Dorian exclaims. “I think we’ve had quite enough of magisters killing elves in Tevinter to last for a few lifetimes, don’t you? Besides, it’s tacky. Executing the spy. So unoriginal.”

“Then… what?” the agent wonders, betraying only slight surprise.

“As a courtesy, and for old time’s sake, I’m going to send you back to your illustrious employer,” Dorian explains.

His gracious offer is greeted with deep scepticism.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he confirms. “Though I hope you will do me the favour of delivering a message to your master. Feeding him information  _is_  your job, after all, isn't it?”

The elf frowns.

“What is the message?”

Dorian takes a sip of the wine.

“You need to warn him. He already knows the Inquisitor is trying to save him. What he must be made aware of is that I don’t give a flaming rat’s ass about that. I would have gladly helped him sort this mess out, if he'd just asked. We could have worked together, all of us, to try and reach a solution built by all of the people who will be most affected by the end results. But we’re past that now. He wants to play the god, reshaping the world as he sees fit, sitting high upon his lonely throne and making decisions for us all. Maudlin bastard.”

“Fen’Harel does not pretend to be a god,” the agent insists.

Dorian chuckles.

“No, no, of  _course_  not. He’ll never use the word. He’ll just act like one,” he agrees. “Like he’s acting now. I don’t care about the particulars of the titles he prefers for himself. I don’t care who he  _used_  to be, back when the world was completely different and he was leading glorious crusades for freedom. He’s not doing that anymore. He’s deemed us all acceptable blood sacrifices for his grand plans, like any good magister lord making use of the ‘lesser’ beings at his disposal. I know his ilk. So you have to warn him, because he’s only going to get the one warning. There has been a method devised by the qunari of rendering mages essentially Tranquil at a distance. The effects have proven quite permanent and devastating so far. I have no idea what it will do to a creature like him. But if it comes to it,  _I will find out._  And he may also appreciate knowing that the qunari have even fewer qualms about using it on him than I do."

The spy actually blanches in horror.

Dorian lets the silence linger for a moment.

Then he dissolves the agent’s bonds with a wave of his hand.

“Run along now,” he asks.

To his credit, the elf beats a very hasty retreat.

It’s a fair warning, he decides. If such a thing were to work, Solas in particular would find that state nightmarish. Worse than death. Dorian doesn’t think there’s another living soul in Thedas he would threaten with it, but these are dangerous times. He's done as his friend asked, and made sure that one of Solas' contacts will get the information to him. His own little addition might garner some disapproval, if it gets around, but he knows the minds of mages who would be gods. 

There’s nothing they fear more than becoming slaves.

The punchline to their life's joke, of course, is that all too often, they already are.

 


End file.
